Fool Enough for Hope
by opals
Summary: House comes onto Chase while high. Wilson knows something happened and is determined to figure it out. Slash non graphic . Some House/Chase and Chase/Wilson. See warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Fool Enough to Hope

Author: Opals

Disclaimer: Obviously I'm not David Shore, because if Chase were mine I'd use him.

Summary: House comes onto Chase while stoned. Wilson knows something happened and is on a mission to discover the source of House's guilt. Slash. Some House/Chase and Chase/Wilson

**Warnings**: Slash- nothing graphic, but slash nonetheless. Also, while this is NOT a rape fic or pwp, the beginning may be a bit sensitive to some.

A/N: I've hesitated to post this, since I've never written slash before and the beginning might be a bit touchy, however I decided to brave it and see how it goes. Thank you to **quack **for looking it over and for the encouraging feedback.

OoOoO

He's popped a few too many Vicodin, and he knows it- not that knowing bothers him in the least- quite the contrary. He's feeling very pleasantly stoned as he sits on the floor of his office with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him.

He'll pay dearly for these few moments of bliss come morning. He's smart enough to realize that he's too high to drive home and sleeping in the hospital on call room always kills his leg; but right now he feels too good to care- besides it's not exactly like he can untake the pills. He grabs the remote, clicks on the tv, and is just settling in for his daily dose of night time soap operas when he hears his office door opening.

"Go away!" he barks without even turning to see who it is. He doesn't need to. He's certain that it's Wilson come to check up on him and undoubtedly lecture him on his pill useage, and he wants nothing more than to enjoy his buzz guilt free for awhile.

"Just dropping off a file and then I'm outta here," comes the softly accented reply.

_Not Wilson after all_.

"If it's a case take it back to Cuddy. I plan on being too stoned to function until Friday."

"Sorry," Chase says, dropping the file on his desk. "Her orders outrank your orders." Chase turns to leave, but halts when he catches sight of the empty prescription bottle alongside the empty bottle of Scotch in the waste basket.

"House?" he asks tentatively.

"Chase."

"Umm…" Chase doesn't need to ask if House is foolish enough to mix booze and pills. He already knows the answer is _yes_. He also knows that reprimanding House for it won't do a bit of good. What he doesn't know is whether or not House is foolish enough to drive stoned, so he settles for, "Would you like a ride home?"

The least he can do is ensure that House isn't tempted to get behind the wheel and kill anybody in his current condition.

OoOoOoO

Once they arrive Chase helps House into his apartment and guides him to his bedroom. Chase then disappears for a minute and returns with two aspirin and a glass of water, which he sets on the nightstand.

"You're going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning," he informs .

"Thanks for the memo, Captain Obvious," House snaps. He has no desire to consider how he'll pay for these few hours of reprieve in the not too distant future.

He wants to enjoy the buzz. He wants to feel _this good_ for as long as he possibly can. He wants to enhance this high any way possible, so that it will take him a lifetime to come back down- because coming back down means dealing with the pain.

He watches Chase pace about the room, considers the kind of enhancement high that pretty blonds can provide and laughs to himself. It occurs to him that perhaps Cameron never actually _planned _to screw Chase that night a little over a year ago, but just couldn't refrain from using him as a cigarette to her meth induced buzz. He pulls the plug on his current line of thinking, because it's _Chase_ and he knows he wouldn't be thinking this way under normal circumstances-or at least he thinks he wouldn't.

Even so, the idea of getting higher still has insidiously taken hold of his mind, and he reaches into his nightstand for his spare bottle of Vicodin.

Chase yanks it away from him before he can take another. "I think you're well over your limit," he says.

House scowls. The high is all he's got, and he doesn't appreciate being denied the maintenance of it.

"Do you think you're going to be sick?" Chase asks then mutters to himself, "Stupid question. Of course you're going to be sick." Chase disappears from the room again and when he returns with a bucket from under the kitchen sink House is struck with an epiphany and is overcome with laughter.

"You just can't help it, can you?" he says in a tone that indicates that he's greatly amused by his fellow's actions.

Chase ignores him and places the bucket next to House's bed.

"Where do you keep your lounge pants?" Chase asks.

House doesn't answer, but plays along with Chase's routine and begins to strip down to his boxers as Chase rummages through his dresser drawers. "Mommy did a hell of a job. Perfectly trained to take care of the poor little addict," he taunts. "Such a good boy."

Chase continues to ignore him. He pulls a pair of dark blue pajama bottoms and a t-shirt from a lower drawer and holds them out in front of him. When House doesn't reach for them he says, "Fine. Sleep in your boxers," and drops them on the bed next to House. Before he can retract his hand, however, House grabs it and pulls him down onto the bed with him.

"I'll bet you're really good, Boy," House laughs as he grabs a handful of blond hair and pulls Chase in for a hard kiss.

And if he was high before, he's absolutely fucking soaring now. Chase's mouth is soft and warm and the way he's writhing against House is turning him on more than he can remember being turned on in years.

When Chase clutches at his shoulder and whispers, "House, please," he bites Chase's neck and promises that since he's feeling very charitable he won't make him beg too much. He's not sure that he could stop himself long enough to make Chase beg anyway. He runs his hands up Chase's sides and over his chest and revels in the way his touch is making the young man's heart beat faster and faster except…the doctor in him is forced to note that Chase's heart really shouldn't be beating _that _fast. And was Chase writhing against him or writhing _away_ from him?

The higher you are, the harder you slam into that nasty little patch of earth called Sobriety.

"Fucking hell," House growls and pushes Chase away from him and over the edge of the bed in one violent shove. "Why don't you learn to say _no_ instead damn near letting someone grope you into a panic attack?"

House looks down when he hears no reply and sees Chase sitting on the floor cradling his left hand. "What did you do?" he asks.

"It's just a sprain. I'm okay," Chase answers trying his best to sound casual, like nothing at all has happened. He almost succeeds.

House blows out a long breath and slides off the bed. "Let me look at it," he says reaching for Chase's hand.

"It's fine," he says, pulling his hand away.

"Damn it! It's not fine!" House snaps causing Chase to flinch. Even though he's still fairly intoxicated House knows that there's nothing fine about any of this- not his actions a few moments ago and certainly not Chase's reaction to them. House reluctantly admits to himself that he needs to regain his control.

He takes a deep breath and adds with forced calm, "You must have landed on it funny when I-when _you _fell. I'll get some gauze and a couple of Tylenol." Chase's only reply is a slight nod.

House hobbles off to his bathroom and returns with a roll of gauze in hand. He then situates himself on the floor in front of Chase and begins to wrap his wrist. When he's finished House pulls a Vicodin from his nightstand drawer and extends it to Chase along with the glass of water that Chase had set there earlier. "For the pain," he explains. At Chase's questioning look he adds, "Tylenol's not going to do crap. We'll get you a real prescription in the morning."

Chase takes the pill and downs it with a slow drink of water while House watches him and wonders why Chase didn't knock him silly or at least run out of the apartment and leave House to sober up on his own.

He's sure Chase must realize that House is scrutinizing him because the young man nervously gets to his feet and mumbles, "I should go," before fleeing the apartment.

House continues to sit on his floor for several minutes after Chase has left. His high has been shattered and he can feel a hangover with a side order of guilt quickly coming in to take the high's place. He deals with them the same way he deals with every other unpleasant occurrence in his life. He calls Wilson.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to all who left a review. After being pretty nervous about putting this up, it was very encouraging to get such a positive response.

OoOoOo

House storms into Wilson's office the next morning like a man on a mission. "You never called me back last night," he accuses.

To his credit, Wilson looks completely un-intimidated. He merely looks up at House and casually replies, "I figured if you were that concerned you would drive over and check on him yourself." He then returned to his breakfast, which House is certain consists of something obnoxiously healthy- low fat yogurt and fruit from the looks of it.

"You never checked?" House shouts.

_Isn't that interesting _Wilson thinks. Even though House deals with life and death on a regular basis Wilson can count the number of times House has looked concerned about something on one hand. For this reason Wilson decides to have pity on him for the moment. "Relax. I checked. His car was there, so I assumed he made it home just fine."

"Oh, good," House says, resuming his usual air of nonchalance and reaching for the door handle. "You know how I hate interviews."

Wilson has no intention of letting House get away with the charade, however. "I checked this morning, too," he adds casually.

House lets go of the door handle.

"I'd be interested to know how Chase broke his hand and why that has you so _concerned._"

House curses under his breath, because he should have known that Wilson would pry. "He didn't break his hand; he sprained his wrist. The idiot tripped over my coffee table while dropping off some files for Cuddy," he lies.

Wilson looks up from his breakfast long enough to give House an incredulous look. "You wouldn't have worried about him driving home with a sprained wrist," he scoffs. "You would have yelled at him for bumping into your furniture and then tormented him with masturbation jokes for a week over the sprained wrist."

"He took one of my Vicodin , and I- being a reasonable human being- was concerned that he might get drowsy while driving home."

"I see," Wilson replies in a tone that indicates that he clearly doesn't and returns to his breakfast.

"I was being the good guy, for once," House insists, though he's not sure why it's so important that Wilson believes this.

When Wilson looks up this time he holds House's gaze. "Exactly how long are you going to pretend that I don't know what happened?" he asks. "If Chase had touched your Vicodin, you would have killed him. You gave him the Vicodin because you felt guilty about what happened, and the pills are the only thing that mean anything at all to you."

"He told you what happened?!"

"No," Wilson says and once again looks more interested in his food than in House. "But now I'm certain that something _did _happen."

House wants nothing more than to reach over the desk and wipe that smug _gotcha_ look right off of Wilson's face. "Why do you care?" he yells, angry that Wilson has played his own game against him and scored.

"Apparently it's what I do."

"Yeah, but usually you have an ulterior motive."

"Well, we can't all be as selfless and giving as you."

"You…you're interested," House accuses. He needs an out, and turning the tables on Wilson is usually a good strategy. He expects a sharp denial. He doesn't expect Wilson to play along.

"Very,"

"Seriously?"

"Yes. I'm very interested in what could prompt you, of all people, to display such guilt."

"I'm not guilty, "House insists and storms out.

OoOoOo

House throws open the door to the diagnostics office and glares at his team. Cameron openly gapes back at him, while Foreman wears his usual bored expression. He notes that Chase avoids his gaze.

He plops into a chair and throws a file on the table. "Twenty-seven year old female. Presents with disorientation, numbness and tremors."

Foreman rolls his eyes. "She has MS. Get an MRI and start her on steroids."

"What if it's late stage Lyme?" Cameron adds. "Steroids would only make it worse."

"She tested negative twice," Foreman argues.

"Doesn't necessarily mean anything," Chase says, finally jumping into the conversation.

"Feel free to ignore any blood tests you see fit," House shoots.

Chase sighs and looks over the patient history.

"Antibiotics won't hurt her if she has MS. Steroids will only make things worse if she has an infection," Cameron continues to argue.

"It says here that she went through rehab a year and a half ago and that she came to the ER with multiple contusions. We should probably do a CT and check for trauma and a tox screen to make sure her symptoms can't be attributed to her falling off the wagon and on her head," Chase says, never looking up from the file.

"Fine," House says. "Foreman, get an MRI. Cameron, start her on IV rocephin and see if there are any changes. Chase, in my office."

Foreman and Cameron exchange puzzled glances but quickly scurry out of the conference room.

Chase hesitantly makes his way over to House's office and shuts the door behind him. He stands silently and waits for House to state his reasons for calling him in.

House looks him over for a moment before venturing reluctantly, "About last night…"

Visibly nervous, Chase cuts him off. "No need to talk about it."

House nods. "I agree."

"Good," Chase says, turning to walk out.

House stops him. "I just wanted you to know that I was pretty wasted."

"I think that was perfectly clear."

"Because I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea."

"No danger of that. Can I go now?"

"I seriously never would have even dreamed of…touching you otherwise,"

Chase blinks then says, "Understood."

House is somehow left with the impression that he has said the wrong thing and files that away for further consideration later on. He had meant this to be a reassuring conversation- even if he isn't entirely certain of whether he is trying reassure Chase or himself. It doesn't matter. The conversation is failing miserably either way, and it's time to jump ship. "Now that we've got that straightened out, I want you to go get that tox screen. "

OoOo

Chase is exhausted by the time the lab pages to tell him that the toxicology report is ready. He didn't sleep a wink the night before and can hardly wait to get home and crawl into bed. He walks over to the lab and is just about to grab the report when he's startled by a hand on his shoulder.

He spins around to find Wilson staring at him. "You look like hell," he says.

"Thanks," Chase retorts dryly then picks up the report and starts in the direction of the diagnostics office.

"No offense intended," Wilson says, easily falling into stride with House's young fellow. "It's just that you look very tired."

"Sorry," Chase replies. He hadn't really meant to snap at Wilson, who was likely just expressing concern. "I guess I am feeling a bit run down today, but now that the tox screen is in I can go home and catch some rest."

"Did you eat?" Wilson asks.

"Huh?" Chase isn't quite sure of the purpose of this particular line of questioning. Wilson has always been professionally courteous towards him, but has never been inclined to make small talk prior to this.

Wilson clarifies. "I didn't get a chance to grab dinner, or I should say 'House _stole _my dinner'. If I know him, you probably had to work through yours. The diner around the corner has good food, and I feel like less of a loser when I don't eat alone. My treat?"

Chase considers for a moment but shakes his head. "Thanks for the offer, but-"

"C'mon," Wilson presses. "As tired as you look you probably shouldn't be driving anyway. A quick bite to eat, then I'll drop you off at home. "

Chase drops the toxicology report on the conference room table and turns towards Wilson, considering.

"Free dinner and a ride home," Wilson continues. "Although I warn you, the company may not be quite as entertaining as you're accustomed to."

Chase relents. Wilson is likely right about him being too tired to drive. "The company being different from what I'm accustomed to is actually a point in your favor," he says while pretending to still ponder the offer. "I suppose I can't refuse."


	3. Chapter 3

OoOoOoO

They eat in companionable silence with Chase jerking awake every so often to fork a bite of his salad and generally oblivious to Wilson's close observation of him.

"Hey, Chase," Wilson says as the young doctor's eyes flutter shut once again.

Chase startles awake and apologizes, "Sorry. I'm sure this isn't the sort of company you had in mind."

"Don't worry about it," Wilson assures. "We all know what it's like to pull long shifts, and it's a refreshing change from House dominating the conversation."

Chase gives a slight nod in response but doesn't say anything- just slumps forward and forks another bite of salad. Wilson finds that he can't help but smile to himself at the sight. Even though he's worked around the young intensivist for over three years he wouldn't exactly say that he "knows" Chase. He's always had the impression that while cordial enough that Chase was rather aloof and somewhat cold. This tired, tousled Chase across the table suddenly seems an entirely different person to him- warmer and less guarded.

Wilson continues to watch as Chase slumps forward even further-the slouched position causing his shirt to gape open a bit at the neck. Wilson glimpses the bruising and teeth marks along the blonde's clavicle and lets out a low whistle.

"You may want to give whatever nurse you're seeing something to chew on besides your neck," he teases.

Chase's eyes go wide and his face drains of color. "I'm sorry?"

"Your neck," Wilson points out. "Somebody left a hell of a--, "Wilson recalls House's oddly guilty behavior in the morning and this time it's Wilson who pales. He's known House to get out of control before, knows that depression and drugs are capable of sending a person on a crazy, downward spiral, and suddenly Wilson doesn't want to know any more.

Chase appears to be fumbling for a response, but Wilson holds up a hand before he can get one out. "Umm…It's really none of my business," Wilson says and returns his attention to his food. He wishes that he could ignore this for good, but his self imposed duty as House's conscience won't allow him to. He has to convince House that he needs help.

OoOoOooo

House is on the sofa trying to concentrate on the O.C. when he hears the familiar pounding on his door. He's in too much pain to get up, and Wilson will let himself in anyway.

Another knock, followed by the turning of the door handle, and the sound angry footsteps coming towards him. House knows that sound means he's in for a lecture, so he deliberately ignores Wilson and turns the volume of his television all the way up.

Wilson plucks the remote from his hands as soon as he reaches House and clicks the "off "button. "Please, please tell me that you didn't sexually assault an employee," he demands.

"It's not rape if she says 'yes'. I have witnesses that will testify to the fact that Cameron's been after me for years," House deadpans.

"You know damn well I'm talking about Chase."

"Oh, Chase? I think I've got a good shot at an acquittal if he shows up to the trial wearing jeans. No member of the jury would convict me. Foreman's a brother, so it's unlikely that they'll take his word over that of an upstanding white man like me. "

Wilson is on the verge of hysteria. "You're _joking _about this?" he shouts. "The kid's got bite marks all along his collar bone, a sprained wrist, and God knows what else- and you're cracking jokes?"

House's expression visibly sours and he grasps his thigh in a vain attempt to stave off some of the shooting pain. "Has it escaped your notice that Chase is a young, healthy, reasonably well built male? He's no kid, and he's no damsel in distress no matter how much you want him to be."

"What the hell are you implying, House?"

"I'm not _implying_ anything. I'm flat out stating that a pretty, emotionally damaged blond around you is like honey to a fly- or more like a sick antelope to a lion."

Wilson holds up his hands in protest. "Wait. Something happens in _your_ apartment that obviously causes you enough guilt and concern that you ask me to check on Chase…"

"I told you he tripped over the damn coffee table," House interrupts.

"I check on Chase-at _your_ request- and that makes _me _the predator?

"If the fangs fit-"

"You're unbelievable."

"No, I've just been around you long enough to know you're not as harmless as you seem. Stay away from Chase. He doesn't need you screwing with his head just to satisfy your need for needy people.

Wilson shakes his head in disbelief and simply stares at House, who is developing a thin sheen of sweat over his face and still clutching his thigh. "You know, accusing me isn't going to ease that guilt induced pain your leg. You need help, House," he says before walking out the door.

OoOoooOoOo

It's after hours as Chase sits in the diagnostics conference room flipping through a patient file. House has been blessedly quiet the past two days and Chase is beginning to believe that things just might go back to normal.

His hopes are dashed as House walks into the conference room and plops down in the seat next to him with an all too familiar look of determination in his eyes.

"Are you screwing Wilson?" he asks without preliminaries.

Chase is flabbergasted. He didn't know what to expect when House approached him, but this certainly wasn't it. "You…you think because we grabbed a bite after work the other day that we're sleeping together?"

"Wilson's also been tailing you like a bitch in heat all day, and I didn't ask if you were sleeping together. I asked if you were having sex," House blurts more to gauge Chase's reaction than for any other reason.

"He's got a patient in ICU. He asked for a consult!" Chase says holding up the patient file that Wilson had handed him earlier.

House snatches it from him and tosses it across the table. "You work for diagnostics, not the ICU. The patient's a ploy. He's only using him as an excuse to go sniffing around you."

"_Her_, and why on Earth would Wilson want to-"

"Because he thinks something happened three nights ago." House gestures to Chase's sprain and continues," I told him you tripped over my coffee table, but for some strange reason he refuses to believe me."

"I'll make certain he knows that's the truth," Chase says, more than willing to pretend that it is and oddly relieved that House has only come here to get his story straight.

But then House throws him for a loop. "We both know it's a lie."

Chase is shocked speechless.

"I want to know why," House asks.

Chase blinks. "Why what?"

"Why didn't you kick my ass? Are you secretly hot for me?"

Chase simply can't have this conversation, so he goes for the quickest out he can think of. "Yeah," he says and quickly gets up to leave.

"Panic attack suggests otherwise," House says and yanks the young man back down by the arm. It instantly occurs to him that this is the second time in three days that he's attempted to physically impose his will on Chase. He withdraws his hand immediately, and now it's House who can't get away fast enough. The only problem is that he's suddenly nauseous and his leg hurts more than ever. It gives out on him as soon as he stands.

Chase catches him before he hits the ground. "Are you all right?" he asks as he steadies the other man. "You've been sweating and shaking on and off all day."

House tries to jerk out of Chase's grip, but Chase seems to instinctively know that he's going to puke and gently guides him down the hall to the nearest men's room where House promptly empties the contents of his stomach.

"Leave," he barks while still hugging the toilet. He despises the thought of anyone, much less one of his underlings seeing him like this.

"I'll be right outside if you need…"

"_Leave_ doesn't mean stand outside the door and listen to me puke. It means _go away_."

Chase lingers for a moment then reaches into his pocket and writes House a script. He slips the paper into House's jacket pocket before turning to leave.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting this out. Things got a little hectic around here, but I hope to update a lot sooner next time.

OoOoOoOoO

Chase leaves the men's room and does his best to ignore the sounds of House's retching. Even though he's a doctor the sound still gets to him-makes him feel helpless in a way that he still hasn't entirely gotten over. In need of a distraction he wanders back to the diagnostic conference room and picks up Mrs. Spearman's file from where House tossed it and begins to review the case again.

It doesn't take long for him to become fully engrossed in the details of the case, so he's a bit startled when Wilson appears in the doorway seemingly out of thin air. "I was hoping you'd get a chance to take a look at that," he says.

Chase looks up at the other doctor and considers for a moment. Other than Cameron's meth inspired one night stand Wilson is the first person at PPTH to willingly spend time with Chase outside of work. He doesn't want to know if House was telling the truth about Wilson's motives, but he knows the question will bother him until he asks. He holds up the file. "Why did you ask me look at the case?"

"I thought that was obvious," Wilson says, "She's in ICU. You're an intensivist. I thought you could recommend the best course of action under the circumstances."

Chase sighs. He hates that House can reduce him to such paranoia, but he knows House's ability to do so is in no small part due to the fact that House is right so damn often. "So it's not because you think…_something_ about me and House?"

"Is that what House told you?"

"Yeah. Look. I stopped over his place and tripped on some clutter…" Chase begins in an attempt to corroborate House's story just in case Wilson really is wondering.

Wilson cuts him off. "Why were you there?"

"What?"

"It's a simple question, Chase- unless, of course, you forgot to rehearse this part of the story with House."

Wilson watches as the young man's face goes from flustered to nervous to stricken before finally settling on righteous indignation. "I don't believe it. House was right." Chase stands up and hands Wilson the patient file. "You don't want a consult and you didn't want company when you invited me to dinner. You want to pry into House's business. Well, leave me the hell out of it!" he snaps before storming out.

Wilson is after him in a flash. "Chase, wait. House _was_ right," he confesses as he tries to keep up with Chase's quick gait. "I was snooping. I don't expect you to understand, but House is an addict. Sometimes he gets out of control, and someone needs to look after him and make sure he doesn't fall into a downward spiral."

Chase stops. He understands Wilson's desire to control the situation all too well, but that doesn't make being manipulated for information any more palatable. "I get it," he says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone as best he can. "But there's nothing for you to be concerned about here. If you're concerned about House take it up with him."

Wilson puts a hand on Chase's shoulder. Chase startles slightly at the contact. "You know, if something did happen sweeping it under the rug isn't what's best for him. He needs to face up to it and take responsibility."

"You've already convinced him to detox. What more do you want?" Chase shrugs Wilson's hand off his shoulder and resumes his walk down the hall.

"I convinced him to detox?"

Chase halts again when he hears the obvious confusion in Wilson's voice. "Didn't you?"

"Wait. What makes you think House is detoxing?"

Chase shot Wilson a look like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "He's leaning on his cane far more than usual, which means the thigh is killing him. He's been sweating, shaking, puking, and I haven't seen him pop a Vicodin in the last three days."

Wilson is completely taken aback. "I never convinced him to detox," he says, "but I think maybe _you _did."

OoOoOoOoOo

When Wilson let's himself into House's apartment that evening he finds House shivering under a pile of blankets with a bucket nearby. He doesn't know what to say, so he simply sits down next to his friend and says nothing

After several minutes pass in silence Wilson finally nods towards the bucket and asks, "Do you need me to prescribe you an antiemetic?"

House pulls a hand out from under the mound of blankets and throws a half crumpled script onto the coffee table. "Chase already did."

"So why aren't you taking any?" Wilson asks.

"Didn't have time to get it filled."

"Or you're punishing yourself," Wilson points out.

"Are we back to accusing me already? In case you haven't noticed I have a nasty case of the flu, and I'm in no mood-"

"Only no stuffy nose, no glassy eyes…and you haven't hounded me for a Vicodin script all week."

"Fucking Chase needs to keep his mouth shut," House mutters.

Wilson flinches. "I never said-"

"No. You just assumed my pain was brought on by psychological guilt. Your new B-F-F is the one who wrote the script."

"You should be proud that you trained your minions well. The kid's observant."

"Yeah. After spending years with an addict he knows what withdrawal looks like. Fucking genius," House bites out sarcastically.

"He confirmed your coffee table story," Wilson informs.

"Told you so."

"Of course, he couldn't tell me what he was doing at your apartment to begin with…"

House shoots Wilson a glare. "Look. The pain was really bad and I took a few pills. He gave me a ride home. Okay? I asked him not to say anything, because I didn't want to listen to one of your lectures, but since I apparently have to listen to them anyway I may as well tell you."

Wilson looks down for a moment. He should have been keeping a better eye on House. "I suppose it's a good thing he had enough sense not to let you drive home," he says with a slight twinge of guilt.

"_I_ had enough sense not to drive," House insists. "Chase just offered an appealing alternative to sleeping in the office."

"Did he also offer an appealing alternative to your usual Vicodin and hooker combo?"

House leans his head back on the couch and stares at the ceiling. "Yeah," he deadpans. "Have you ever really looked at that mouth?"

Wilson just stares at his friend until House grows visibly uncomfortable. "What?!" House snaps.

"Your voice," Wilson points out. "It lacks its usual level of sarcasm."

House's expression sours. "It's called _dry humor_, Jimmy."

"No. I know what your dry humor sounds like. That was more the tone you adopt when you're only _half _joking, which means that you're _half _serious."

"Despite what you may think of me I'm not really bastard enough to shove an employee on their knees and demand sexual favors," House says before qualifying his statement. "Unless, of course, said employee actually _is_ a hooker, but they tend to just get right down to business."

"No," Wilson agrees, ignoring House's attempt at humorous deflection. "But you mentioned Chase's mouth, and you admit that you were intoxicated. So, I'm thinking that you kissed him. Chase had bite marks all down his neck, so kissing him obviously aroused you." Wilson paused before venturing carefully, "Are you detoxing because you're ashamed that you were turned on by another man?"

House glares daggers. "You're a moron!"

"Sooo…You were just pretending to be a vampire that day?"

"Chase is soo not a man, and I have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Well, Chase is pretty," Wilson concedes. "But _something _is bothering you."

House hunkered down under his piles of blankets and closed his eyes. "Right now the only thing bothering me is **you**."


End file.
